Our Own Hell









Nothing compares to it really as

we toss and turn in our sleep at

night and pray for deliverance

from it.


We’re stuck in our bodies whether

we like it or not we twist our

souls in our sheets trying

to survive it.


Yet dissolving slowly like all our

past lives lived and counted out

or taken down by disease, there’s

no escaping hell.


Except for those who have found

their god on earth and heaven

above, but could they be wrong?


With this sweet song of repentance

love and forgiveness for all who confess

on bended knee to make it through the

eye of that needle. I toss even more in

my bed with questions.


I’ve rubbed myself up against so

many hard days from my past

and they are not comforting bed

fellows. No escaping them I am

stuck in my body not yet shed

simply dissolving, dissolving like

a rancid pool of dripping sewer

water thrown out with the waste.


Picking my coffin when the time

is ripe, the salesman will laugh

when I ask him to let me try it

out for size and then inform him

that the cardboard box will be

just fine as it burns for a third

of the cost of mahogany fine.


I don’t share my hell with anyone

but myself as there’s no hell like

our very own.


In the meanwhile I will continue

to wash under my armpits, pluck

the feathers from my belly button

and accept life for what it is a

box of chocolates, never

knowing what you’re going

to get.


Let the seasons change

and October blow at our trees

limbs and shake their crusted

leaves to the ground for us to

walk and crunch their sounds

from selfish colors they fade

and leave behind.


Strange things are happening in

our world and cities as our blood

keeps pumping from our heart

and channeling and lubricating

our souls.


I crunch up my pillow under my

sleepy head and turn over to stare

at my ceiling and watch the fan

above squeak and churn while

the sun attempts to creep through

my verticals. Damn it’s just another

moody Manitoba morning and I

crossed the finish line.


© Copyright Vincent Moore 2012. All Rights Reserved.


Our Own Hell — 6 Comments

  1. Dear Vincent-This powerful poem reads like a short-story of life’s crazy ride. Your writing touches my soul like no one else. I was there with you through the ups and downs. Another masterpiece my talented friend.

    • Thank you Linda for your kind words about my work, I am so happy to be one of your favorite poets. Most of my work comes as inspiration. My muse takes hold of my past, shakes it around and forces me to rearrange his words and claim them as mine. My creations come often through much pain from my past, my sorrows are deep, yet I keep moving forward with my life. Blessings I send to you this eve, hugs.

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